She is the call of a raven,
a cello suite wrapped in the flames
of a punk rock refrain.
She went into war with sparks on
the tips of her fingers,
emerged with fire scarred into her voice.
Fury courses over her tongue,
through her pen,
uncontained onto the blank pages she attacks
with a torrent of passion and sorrow.
She is a step ahead in the darkness,
the pulse of a nation
roaring and blasting through the moon.
She is the loud mouth, the soothsayer, the compatriot.
Rage is the blood of her poetry,
bravery the backbone.
She is the sound of the ocean at midnight,
the clamor that shatters the dawn.
She is a chaos of wind that longs for rain,
a mind that swims untethered channels.
She is the wicked girl, the rebel poet,
the mother who softens at the sound of her son’s laughter.
She is the teacher and the disciple,
with a dagger in one hand, a valley of lilies in the other.
She is the veins that crave escape,
the eyes that refuse to look away.